In the second scene of the Adams House Henry IV, a good-sized lump of flesh is discovered slouching on a bench, snoring. It is the snore of authority, rich with phlegm and idiosyncrasy, and within a few minutes after it dwindles into wakefulness there is no question that things will be all right. The lump of course is Sir John Falstaff, in the considerably-augmented person of Daniel Seltzer, and the effervescent Mr. Seltzer is engaged in one of the most amazing tours de force ever perpetrated upon the risibilities of the Harvard community. He shows us an entirely fabulous creature, soaring in the Empyrean of obesity and insolence; he totters and grumbles with a rambunctious aplomb that never descends into querulousness, and--if I have not made the point sufficiently clear--he is hilarious.

There is in the pages of Henry IV another incarnation of disorderly glory as eminently actable as Falstaff himself: Harry Hotspur, who is both the noble avatar of chivalry gone out-of-date, and a very young man full of appealing foibles. In this role Thomas Weisbuch is properly brisk and explosive, but even from Row D his words are often hard to understand; worse, he lacks both the charm of boyish buoyancy that should make Hotspur irresistible, and the trumpet-tongued grandeur requisite to his mounting "esperance."

Hotspur lies dead, however, at the end of the play, and the coming repudiation of Falstaff is announced near the beginning. Shakespeare's theme, one of his favorites, is the defeat of high disorder and glorious idiosyncrasy by a comparatively hum-drum and rather chilly practicality, in the person of Henry, Prince of Wales. In Part II of Henry IV Shakespeare shows us that Hotspur's colleagues are merely anarchic self-seekers and that Falstaff and his friends have a sizeable streak of moral rottenness; in Henry V the now-eponymous hero reconciles (with some disturbing overtones) personal grandeur with practical efficiency. But in this play the forces of disorder are much the more attractive, and as a result it sometimes has a sad, almost bitter taste. The cheerful performance of Stephen Wailes as the Prince prevents any such thing from happening at Adams House, and so draws the teeth of the play and injures its continuity. The hypocrisy with which he pretends to pretend to insult Falstaff, while actually meaning every word, is completely soft-pedaled, and the play's most multi-edged ironies go with it. Affairs are considerably heartier on that account, but there is nothing self-compensating in the insipidity and lack of eloquence in Mr. Wailes' later scenes.

John Nathan's clipped, formidable, authoritative king proves that all the vitality has not gone out of the Lancaster family, but with few other exceptions the supporting cast is a random, uncomfortable-looking, and ill-spoken lot.

Mr. Seltzer has directed in addition to his other chores, and has not made a good job of it. Although he uses a bare stage, his production is spotted with stage-waits. These will certainly speed up as the run goes on, but even short blackouts make the play a pile of disparate scenes, instead of an unbroken continuity of swiftly-changing action. Mr. Seltzer's blocking has some odd lapses, and falls apart entirely at the end. These final scenes also expose most pitilessly the limitations of his actors, and the concluding Battle of Shrewsbury is the soggiest and most lacklustre carnage ever to empurple the tented fields of Cambridge. Through it all, however, wanders the stubby, stubborn figure of Mr. Seltzer, imperturbable in his eminent eptitude, compensating for all shortcomings.

I Henry IV has its inalienable glories, which frequently light up the Adams House production even when the Fat Knight is offstage. But while these have been and will be available elsewhere, there is no telling whether Mr. Seltzer will ever play Falstaff again after next Tuesday. Miss him at your own risk.